


Hath No Fury

by Sour_Idealist



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angry Sex, Exes, F/M, Face-Sitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 14:00:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16243091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sour_Idealist/pseuds/Sour_Idealist
Summary: Marion finds the Evening Nip.





	Hath No Fury

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kinktober day 8, hate-fucking / angry sex. Oh boy this one's hot off the presses.

It was a dim and quiet night until Marion Lavorre walked into the Evening Nip.

The Gentleman, bent over his cards, heard the click of high heels on the stairs, even heard the rustle of silk, but he paid the sound no mind. Why would he? Center of his domain though it was, selective though it was, the Evening Nip was still a bar, and his guards were good at their work. He would look in time, oh yes – no one stayed long in his domain unnoticed – but there was money on the table and luck in the air. Thus he was entirely unwarned when her voice rolled out, rich and rare as hundred-year-old wine: “Babenon DuSol.”

His cards fell bare to the tabletop.

He recovered quickly, curling his numb fingers as he stood. “The Ruby of the Sea,” he said, with a low bow that sent droplets of water splattering to the carpet below. One step, two, and he was close to her. Crows-feet, new, at the corners of her eyes; new gold hanging in her ears. No emotion whatsoever in the blown-glass beauty of her face. “To what do we owe this honor?”

He was not at all surprised when her hand lifted; she had the right, but nonetheless he dodged the blow, catching her wrist in his hand. “ _Not,_ ” he said, too low to carry, “in front of my people. I cannot. Not even from you.” He raised his voice, letting it fill the room. “Well then, straight to business it is. Come.” He swept her over to the stairs, commanding as he could manage, one hand at the small of her back. His fingers shook, for all that he'd begun his empire with the steadiness of his hands. She could no doubt feel the trembling, but she went with him. A single flick of his fingers kept Kutha outside at the door; he just caught the widening of the ogre's eyes. Tonight was dangerously close to visible weakness, but he owed the Ruby of the Sea.

No sooner had the latch clicked than she put two feet of space between them, turning now to meet his eyes. The Ruby's smile brought weaker men to their knees, according to the poets. He bowed to no one, never had, and even he had to lock his knees against the ice-cold fury in her face.

“Marion,” he said. “The years have been nothing but kind to you.”

“They haven't made you any kinder.”

He did not wince. He was no young man anymore, to fall dizzy at her feet. “That they have not,” he said. “I hadn't expected you to come.”

She took a half-step closer, tilting her head back to meet his eyes. Her hands were locked behind her back; he imagined that otherwise they would be fists. “Your daughter told me where you were.”

“She's not my daughter.”

“Don't you think,” she said, soft, “that I would know? She's no one else's daughter, Babenon. I know.”

“Truly?” he asked, making his voice as hard as he could. “In your line of work, she has no other... likely fathers?”

“I know my work,” she bit out. “I take precautions. I always have. Except with you. And even if anyone else could gotten her – even before she could walk, she was swimming in the bath. She calls ice from her fingers when she's angry. She used to spend hours, staring at the sea. _She is your daughter._ And, Babenon? That was beneath you.”

“Not much is beneath me anymore. Not when the need arises.” He turned away, making for the sideboard. The bottle there today was ruby wine, because he had angered some god or other very badly today. “Would you care for a drink?”

“No,” she said, her heels clicking on the floor. She grabbed his shoulder, digging in. She still wore her nails gilt and sharp, not hiding but emphasizing how much they looked like talons. “You know, I truly thought – I believed. I believed that you would have come back if you could. Five years as a courtesan, and I believed every promise that you made me.”

He closed his eyes. Licked his lips once, then again. He knew his voice would shake, and said it anyway: “I meant them. When I said it, Marion, I meant every single word.”

“Liar.”

“Yes, I am.” He turned, then, prying her fingers from his shoulder. Gods above, it had been years since he remembered the heat of her skin. She used to play it up, and wore a scent like smoke and wild spice; now her perfume was floral and lush. “The finest liar in Zadash, unless we count the politicians.” That won a faint, unwilling twitch of her lips. “But not to you.”

She pulled her hand free, caught his chin. “Then why?” she asked, and, gods, he hadn't known he had this much guilt left in him. But she hurt, and he could hear it. “Why did you never come back to me?”

“There... is a great deal to that story.” He wanted to close his eyes, but it had been twenty years and a great many women, and yet he still could not bring himself to look away from her. “If you'll forgive a bit of irony in the metaphor, I found myself over my head, and by the time I surfaced, I... was not who I had been. It seemed better not to look back.” He had thought it would kill him, to look back. Fucking hell, but he had been young. (The gods have mercy, had he and Marion been young.)

“Babenon,” she said, “I don't forgive you for anything.” And she kissed him.

It was all punishment and teeth; many women had kissed him like this, some with fangs as sharp as hers, but none of them had ever been Marion Lavorre. Stupid as he'd been at twenty-three, he opened his mouth and kissed her like he meant to let her rip him apart.

“Do you know,” she whispered, close against his mouth, “how many men I've taken to my bed for my own sake, since you left? Who I had for no reason but my own joy?”

“Hundreds of them, I would hope,” he said, before he knew he'd had the thought. “You deserve no less.”

“ _None_ ,” she said. “Not a single one, since you.”

 _I'm sorry._ He smothered the words in her mouth.

Her fingers hooked into his belt, pulled his trousers open without the slightest hint of grace. He could hear the stitches ripping. She grabbed at his cock, painfully rough; but he'd his own tastes in rough treatment, and he moaned into her mouth. She bit down, drawing blood, salt as the sea.

“Make it up to me,” she whispered. “Make it _mine_ , this time. Give me something for me.”

She didn't bother making it lovely, when she pushed him to the floor. She didn't even bother to be sure he wouldn't bruise. Buttons popped and linen tore, until she had him laid out on his own carpet, naked above the waist and trousers shoved down ignominiously to his boots. Then she was gathering her skirts in her hands, the silk crumpling irreparably, and with a flurry of lace and limbs she shoved her cunt into his face.

She radiated heat, this close, her thighs close against his cheeks; and she was wet already, wild and sour on his tongue. Of all the idiotic things, the taste brought tears springing to his eyes. But, twenty-odd years of silence gone, and half Wildemount at her feet, and still she wanted him.

He pressed his lips tight to her labia and licked her open, fast and sure. She'd positioned herself facing down his body, rocking down against his face; her fingernails raked up his chest, and he muffled a whine against her clit. She used to love that anyhow, and by her shiver she still did, so he did it again, and again, trying to cover every inch of her cunt with his tongue.

There was no one else like her, not in all the world. Every man who'd bought her attention should have showered her with gold and begged her to simply use them. And he never would have survived the Myriad, not if anyone could look at him and see how much he cared for her.

She came, muscle pulsing against his tongue, and only slackened long enough to let him breathe a little more before she was on him again, riding him to exhaustion. Her fingers bit into his skin; he clutched at her thighs, dared no more. Her second orgasm drenched his face, sour and blinding; she rode him still, while he sweated enough saltwater to stain the carpet, while his neck knotted up in cramps, while his cock leaked throbbing and ignored. His tongue ached, his lips were halfway numb, and she had to know he hurt by now. Had to intend it.

He worked his tongue against her, teasing at her clit with his teeth.

When at last she came again, it was with a ragged, ruined cry, and he could feel her thighs shaking against his face. She slumped forward, graceless still, her forehead coming to a rest against his stomach. Then she lifted her head, weight shifting, and he heard a short sharp sound. Realized what it was just as the spittle hit his cock. She'd _spat_ on him.

And from the ragged laugh, she'd noticed that it made his cock jerk as easily as touch.

At last she moved, and he blinked his eyes open again. It hurt. Her skirts were thick enough to block the light, and she'd kept him down there long enough his vision had to readjust. When at last his sight cleared, she was kneeling next to him, her skirts a rumpled pool around her. Tear-tracks wet on her face, and that wilted his erection more than any of her scorn.

Softly, giving her time to push him away, he reached out. More gentle than he'd been in years, he thumbed the tears from the corners of her eyes.

“Oh, Marion,” he whispered.

“You're not forgiven,” she whispered back, and buried her face against his chest.

 


End file.
